


Picking Pretend

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Hate Sex, M/M, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America collapses in Russia's front yard and remains in Russia's house. They're both left to wait until it ends. Takes place at some point during the Cold War, though no specific date (I'm thinking around 70s or 80s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ January 17, 2010.

Russia watches as America tumbles over his feet and collapses in his yard, face ragged and breathing labored. His heavy bomber jacket is worn and dirty so much that he almost sinks into the scenery in the waning months before winter.   
  
Russia is not concerned over America’s well-being, and a part of him reminds himself that he should be imprisoning and destroying the enemy, now that he has crossed over enemy lines. Russia does not concern himself with it overmuch and instead stoops to haul the exhausted, passed out nation by his collar, fisting his large hand in the front of his military uniform, before dragging him back towards his home. America does not shift, though the bag on his shoulder slumps and is nearly forgotten, until Russia grabs that, too.   
  
When he enters his home, he throws America to the floor and drops his bag down beside him. The younger man does not cringe, does not curl into himself as Russia may have hoped, wondered, if he might. He lays there, his breathing labored as he dreams distressing dreams. Russia regards him with the flickering remnants of amusement, wondering what dreams could make such a nation see fear.   
  
Presently, after a few hours of unpleasant dreams, spurred on by exhaustion, dehydration, and, Russia suspected, at least a bit of tenaciousness that seemed to saturate everything America did, the country on the floor stirs, groaning a little and blinking up at the unfamiliar ceiling.   
  
He recognizes where he is instantly, Russia decides, because he freezes up, tensing almost instantly. And slowly his head swivels, finding Russia’s eyes without any difficulty, the sharp electric blue finding him with no hesitation.   
  
Russia smiles a slow, easy smile. “Good morning.”   
  
America’s eyes are wide with fear for a quarter of a second before he seizes up and tucks away the emotions for another day. Russia delights in being able to read this child so well, delights in the way their eyes find one another with no trouble and stare. Russia and America have perfected the staring contest, because it is one of the many games they play with one another. Russia, at least, calls it a game, only because he knows that when he does, it causes that small twitch in the corner of America’s eye as he steadies himself enough not to hit him.   
  
“You…” America begins slowly, not sure what words he should shout. Whatever insult he has on his lips is something that Russia is well accustomed to, because the insults never truly change.   
  
“Me,” Russia agrees, and does not say anything more because in that instant, America kicks out his foot, catching Russia in the ribs and sending the man back a few feet.   
  
Russia chuckles, amused, as America’s hand goes to his hip, drawing out his gun and pointing it at him. He is not quick enough, there is too much hesitation, because Russia is there, twisting his wrist back painfully so that America cries out, the gun falling from his fingers and into Russia’s palm. He holds the gun in his hand a moment, weighs it and admires the shape and feel, before he crushes the barrel in his hold and throws it against the wall.   
  
America’s face tenses up, forms into a grim line—had he forgotten, Russia wonders, that he is not the only one with strength?—and tries to wrench his hand back. Russia releases his wrist and America stumbles backwards, poised on the balls of his feet and glaring up at Russia. He’s crouched, like a cornered animal, perhaps only now grasping the reality of his situation. The wild eyes find Russia’s and hold firm, unrelenting and unwilling to flicker away.   
  
“Spying, were you?” Russia asks.   
  
America’s eyes narrow. “No.”   
  
Russia lets out a small sigh, refusing to break eye contact, refusing to blink. “No. Certainly not.”   
  
Russia watches America tighten, arch up like a cat. Watches him bend like a bow, and he realizes and instinctively knows that America is going to launch himself at Russia before he even does it. Sure enough, moments later America is closing the distance, charging Russia and trying to dart his way to Russia’s front door, so that he can make his quick escape.   
  
Russia catches him head-on, feels the way America’s fist crunches into his jaw, feels the burst of metallic blood in his mouth, at the same time that Russia’s knee lifts and jabs straight into America’s gut. The boy gasps in pain and stumbles backwards, and Russia swallows the copper of his blood before smiling at America, his teeth stained pink.   
  
“An uppercut,” he says, appreciatively.   
  
“Bastard,” he hears America hiss to himself, and knows he is displeased at being complimented by a communist. Russia hums, low and to himself, and America’s mind is reeling too much with potential escape plans to notice Russia’s actions—though, even when paying attention, Russia does not know if America truly understands.   
  
Russia is about to say more but it seems America is ready to go at it again, as he is charging towards Russia. _Always so aggressive,_ Russia thinks to himself, and his pink smile widens slightly, curls at the corners. _So high-strung._   
  
“Isn’t it interesting?” Russia asks.   
  
“ _What?_ ” America asks, after a pause, after he undoubtedly wonders why he is rising to Russia’s bait.   
  
“The color of your eyes,” Russia says lightly, teeth pink as he smiles widely, eyebrows slanting.   
  
America swallows once and then glares, his eyes narrowing, the blue of his eyes swirling.   
  
“What about it?” America demands.   
  
“They’re very nice,” Russia tells him, and then chuckles.   
  
America does not sputter, does not betray that anything Russia says has distressed him, but when he punches Russia again, his hit is harder than it’d been before. Russia’s head whips back from the impact before he rolls it back to its proper position. He punches America next and the other nation slams into the wall, coughing up blood. His teeth are red now, too.   
  
“I think what I remember most about you,” Russia says, conversationally, as if he was not in the middle of fighting with America. “Is your eyes. And your smile.”   
  
“Bastard,” America chokes as Russia slams his palm against America’s windpipe, tethering him to the wall as he tries to dart away.   
  
Russia shrugs one shoulder, shifts out of the way when America sends flying kicks. He tightens his hold so America chokes again and America falls silent a moment, focusing all his energy in glaring straight at Russia with all the hatred and revulsion he can muster.   
  
“It’s amazing, how easily you can smile, how nice your smile is. Isn’t it?” Russia asks, voice thick with his accent and with something else that America does not and cannot place. “Your eyes were always so inviting, so kind, almost naive. Yes?”   
  
“Shut the fuck up,” America snaps, unsure what exactly, if anything, Russia is getting at and disliking it. He squirms against Russia’s hold, grasps his wrist with his fingers. His fingers are rough, worn from days of work, blistered and callused. The hold on his wrist is almost as raw as his demand.   
  
Russia ignores it. He smiles, low and grating. “And isn’t it so strange, how kind those eyes and smile can be, and how quickly it can turn to ice? How quickly you are filled with hate and—”  
  
“I said shut the—”  
  
“And how quickly you cast aside everything you stand for, yes?” Russia whispers.   
  
His words have the effect he’d hoped for on America, and he slumps for a moment. Russia punches America in the ribs and he cries out, collapsing. On his knees, he still manages to tip his head back and glare at Russia. Russia does not stop smiling, even when America tips his head back and spits at him, a glob of blood and saliva splattering against him. Russia accepts this in the best way he knows how: he kicks America’s chin, sending his head wrenching back so his skull cracks painfully against the wall behind him.   
  
“I don’t,” America breathes, his voice husky and wheezy from the lack of air. He clenches his side in chilly disdain, blue eyes as cold as the frost outside and looking only at Russia.  
  
Russia obliges him, and does not slant his eyes away from him. He watches the way America burns.   
  
“I don’t,” America repeats. “I don’t cast aside everything I stand for.”   
  
Russia tips his chin back to better look down on America. He doesn’t say anything. He only smiles.   
  
America looks as if he wants to say more, but he passes out again.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He stirs and comes to just as Russia is beginning to wonder if he should check for a pulse. He blinks his eyes open and finds Russia instantly, already glaring again.   
  
America launches off his feet and crashes into Russia, knocking him onto his back. As he does so, he cries out in pain from the jolt in his ribs, but he does not waver as he shoves Russia into the ground, attempts to wrangle against him. Russia struggles and freezes when America presses a gun into his forehead.   
  
America finally smiles, but it is not the one Russia remembers from days long ago, a bright, passionate smile. This smile is similar to America’s other smiles: unrelenting and tenacious. But as he grins down at Russia, the nation recognizes the small glimmers of bloodlust, the way it’s more of a grimace, more of a baring of teeth, than it is an expression of happiness.  
  
“Didn’t expect the backup gun, did you?” America crows.   
  
Russia looks up at the barrel of the gun and up the length of America’s arm. His eyes settle on America’s eyes and stay there. They stare at one another.   
  
“Well?” Russia invites, making a point to sound unconcerned, looking up at America. “What are you waiting for?”   
  
America doesn’t answer, and his smile doesn’t flicker. His eyes are cold.   
  
Russia is the one to slant his eyes away, looking off to his right where America’s bag lies, forgotten.   
  
“What’s in the bag?”  
  
“Why the fuck does that matter?” America snaps.  
  
Russia shrugs one shoulder. “If you are spying on me and there are things that should be confiscated, I should report it to my boss.”  
  
“Oh, is that _so?_ ” America growls.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
His words are easy and he turns his attention towards the middle-distance, instead of focusing solely on America. America doesn’t seem to like it, and Russia’s eyes flicker as he watches America finger the trigger, as if debating whether to pull it or not.   
  
“You’ll get blood on your hands,” Russia offers.  
  
“There already is,” America snaps. “Shut up. Do you think I’m not aware? Everyone—”  
  
“Yes,” Russia agrees, cutting America off. “We all have blood on our hands, don’t we?”   
  
“Whatever you’re trying to pull, stop it,” America demands.   
  
“I’m not doing anything,” Russia breathes.   
  
America recoils, hand still on the trigger. Russia knows what he’s thinking. That Russia’s lies, at least, are easier to see through than his smiles are. So he keeps smiling, because that is the easiest thing to do, in this situation.   
  
“Stop it,” America instructs, though this time Russia truly believes he is doing nothing.   
  
His eyes flicker. He watches the way America’s nostrils flare, the way his hand tenses around his gun, the way he’s straddling Russia and keeping him on the ground. He lets his head rest on the cold, hard ground.   
  
America tilts his attentions towards the front door.   
  
Russia follows his eyes.   
  
“Will you make a run for it?”   
  
America’s eyes are back on Russia’s instantly, and he tenses up.   
  
“You won’t make it,” Russia says, deceptively gentle.   
  
“I’ll shoot you if you try to stop me,” America hisses.   
  
“Not me,” Russia reminds. “Out there.” He inclines his head. “You’ll be destroyed before you can make it back to safe territory. You are behind the curtain now, America.”   
  
America says nothing, but Russia watches the way he swallows, the way he digests these words. There is barely a flicker in his eyes, but Russia sees it: fear. Realization. He breaths in, sharply. His lips part and he looks as if he is about to speak, before he thinks better of it and clamps his eyes shut.   
  
The gun is gone from Russia’s forehead before he can blink. America stands. Russia doesn’t move, but watches him, amused and curious, as America captures his bag.   
  
He slings it over his shoulder and glares at Russia. “Want to know what’s in my bag?”   
  
Russia did not expect that question, but he doesn’t show it on his face as he says, “Yes.”   
  
America looks away. “Cigarettes, rations, and porn.”   
  
He walks away.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Russia is surprised to see that America has not left his house, as Russia had supposed he would. Instead, America seems to be making himself at home. He doesn’t keep Russia out of his sight, which is just as well because Russia has no intention of keeping America out of his sight, either.   
  
He props his feet up on the table, watching Russia like a hawk. His bag is by his side, and he has one yellowed cigarette clenched between his teeth. He watches Russia over the edge of the book he is reading.   
  
It’s old, grimy, and the pages are crinkled with dog-ears and use. It’s not porn, as Russia originally suspects.   
  
“It’s fiction,” America tells Russia when he catches Russia looking at the cover. He blows out a long puff of smoke. He waves the book at him. “You know all about fantasies, right? Delusions?”   
  
Russia knows he is trying to bait him, but he is not torn by that insult. He tilts his head to the side, curls his fingers around his drink, and says, “Is the author American?”   
  
America’s eyes narrow. “‘Course.”   
  
“Then you should know better than I,” Russia says easily. His eyes flicker. “The power and promise of daydream and illusion.”   
  
“Want to see the porn, you dirty commie?” America shoots back, angered.   
  
Russia chuckles, dark and empty. “I do not.”   
  
“Can’t handle it?” America laughs as if he has told a particularly funny joke. He takes a drag from his cigarette and stubs it out on the table.   
  
Russia finishes his drinks, and watches America as he turns a page in his ragged fiction book. He says, with a constant calm, “I will leave you to your hard-on in peace.”   
  
Like crude clockwork, a reaction that Russia can always count on, America whips his head up, glaring and flaring up. Russia loves that passion. Loves the way that, despite his anger, America is sure to mark the page he is reading before snapping his book shut and standing up.   
  
“You—”  
  
“Why are you still in my house?” Russia asks, cutting off whatever insult America was ready to fire.   
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the unruly nation sneers.   
  
America looks like he wants to launch himself at Russia, but he hesitates. Before, Russia must have broken a few of America’s ribs because he handles himself with a tenderness Russia has not seen on the boy for many years. He barks but rarely does he bite now. Perhaps, though, it is caution at being in an enemy’s house. Though, Russia further reasons, he has had his opportunities to leave—unless he is heeding Russia’s warning of going into the outside. As much as America must hate to admit it, Russia’s house is the safest for him at this moment. Russia’s people may not regard the American with as much amusement as the country itself does.   
  
This is fine, he decides. America is amusing.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America stays for weeks. Somehow, Russia hasn’t expected him to remain for so long, no matter how amusing. America has read his books at least three times through, and though Russia has not caught him as such, he is sure that America has found use for his porn at least twice. His cigarettes are long gone. Russia does not know the affairs of his rations.   
  
America is not as good of a liar as Russia is, or he is still untrained. Or Russia is better at being able to see such things. He has caught on a number of occasions instances when America has been snooping. He walks into a room and America snaps a drawer shut, and turns to glare at him as if he had interrupted something important.   
  
“You won’t find anything,” Russia tells him.   
  
America scoffs and storms past him, gun trained on Russia to make sure he doesn’t do anything. Russia remains where he is standing, letting America pass before he speaks again.  
  
“There is nothing of importance in this house. My boss does not trust state secrets with someone as accessible as myself.”  
  
“And what makes you think I’ll believe a word you say?”   
  
“I am only saying,” Russia says, bemused.   
  
Russia watches America, wondering how long he will stay. How long he will remain searching until he gives up.   
  
America has healed, spent a long time sitting on Russia’s bed as if it is his, glaring at Russia whenever he comes too close. Russia does not argue with the one with the gun, though he knows where his own guns are hidden, because it is too much work to scold a child. He allows America that small victory, and makes sure to walk softly so that the nation is constantly on edge. He hopes that America does not sleep well at night, waking up at the slightest creak.   
  
Russia does not trust America, which is just as well because he knows that the American does not trust him in the least. There is cause for this war, after all. This lack of a war.   
  
“When are you going to leave?” Russia asks America’s back.   
  
America stops, then turns around. That iron-glinted smile is back, his eyes wild.   
  
“Once I get what I want.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The first time Russia realizes, for sure, that America’s presence in his house is an accident is when he catches him working to get Russia’s radio to signal outwards and contact his people. His words are rushed, frenzied, and devastated. Stranded in an enemy’s world, a lost plane, and trying to justify his abandonment by finding something useful—with no luck. Russia had not been lying when he said there was nothing in his house. This does not stop the American from trying to benefit from his misfortune.   
  
Russia smiles charmingly before smashing the radio against the wall. America cries out before throwing a punch, frustrated and angered.   
  
Russia catches America’s punch in the jaw and stumbles back. He doesn’t stop smiling, lifting his hand to thumb across his mouth, checking for traces of blood. When he draws back and sees red on the pad of his fingertips, he is amused.   
  
“Did you reach them?” he asks.   
  
America’s eyes narrow. But he nods.   
  
Russia smiles.   
  
“You can’t stop me,” America swears, his entire face twisted in anger and staring only at Russia. Russia watches the way his eyes flicker in triumph.   
  
“I have no intention to,” Russia says, slowly, his voice low and his eyes tracing the lines of America’s sun-worn, war-torn face.   
  
“Why?” America demands, because that had not been the response he expects.   
  
Russia moves towards America, and America stiffens up, but does not back down. They stand toe to toe, looking at one another, and Russia knows that America must hate having to tilt his head back to glare at him.   
  
“Because isn’t that what this is all about?” Russia asks, and says no more.   
  
America’s eyes narrow further, into small slits. The question is forming on his mouth, Russia can see his tongue move, see the glint of his teeth as he thinks.   
  
Russia says, “That you and I are always this close, and yet nothing happens. Which of us will be the one to move, America?” He raises his hand and America’s tenacity and stubbornness prevents him from recoiling when Russia reaches out and touches his face. It is not a gentle touch, a parody almost, a shadow of what could be a touch. His hardened fingertips scrape down the lines of America’s face. Russia is still smiling when he says, “What will happen after everything is gone?”   
  
“Noth…” America begins before the words die in his throat.   
  
He grips Russia’s wrist, tightly, squeezing, before forcing the hand away from him. Russia lets him. Something clicks into place behind America’s eyes. The blue color Russia can never quite place seems to seep away, solidify and clarify.   
  
“No fight?” Russia asks to fill the silence.   
  
America blazes and Russia watches his hands curl into fists. He wonders how much he must be confusing the boy, or, perhaps, making everything clearer again.   
  
“I will not stop you because there is nothing to stop,” Russia says. He smiles.   
  
America grits his teeth and flashes that misplaced smile again, the baring of teeth that looks more like a grimace. His glasses glint and wink in the dying sunlight in Russia’s house as the blue eyes glare straight into him. _He is such a passionate boy,_ Russia thinks, and not for the first time.   
  
“If you were smart you would stop me,” America growls.   
  
Russia reaches out a hand and pushes America in the ribs. He gasps in pain and it’s enough for Russia to force him against the wall, towering over him and forcing the boy under his shadow. America, for his part, does not back down. His chest swells beneath Russia’s touch, restraining himself enough to keep his hands down but not enough to keep the passion from his eyes.   
  
“It seems you will be leaving soon,” Russia says.   
  
America’s eyes seek Russia’s, and hold them. His voice is dripping with venom and sarcasm, protecting whatever he is feeling beneath, “If you really _want_ me too. Jesus, Russia.”   
  
Their staring contest resumes.   
  
Russia does not blink, and the smile does not return to his face. “Your people must have been wondering where you were.”   
  
America scoffs, but the grimace and teeth-flashing are gone from his face now, his expression smooth and quietly livid now.   
  
“Not anymore,” he says and sounds pleased.   
  
“No, not anymore,” Russia agrees, voice hushed.   
  
Russia’s complacency in the situation annoys America further. His brow furrows and his body tenses up, arching slightly.   
  
“If you don’t want to stop me,” America says, “you must be pleased that I’m leaving, then.”  
  
“Of course.”   
  
America twitches. That hadn’t been the response he’d expected either, but Russia wonders what it is the boy expects at all, if anything.   
  
“And why—?”  
  
“There is nothing in this house that could have jeopardized me or benefited you. All you do is sit in my house and steal my bed and read your fantasies,” Russia explains, voice almost gentle. He presses a hand against America’s windpipe that takes America by surprise, and he gasps quietly. Russia continues, “No, you are better ‘free’, isn’t it?”   
  
“Why the fuck would you want me free?”   
  
“Because it is so much more fun that way, isn’t it?” Russia explains, and then laughs. “What is the point of having an enemy if you cannot chase and be chased by that enemy?”  
  
America does not comprehend right away, but slowly he raises his eyes again to Russia. “You’re fucked up,” America says and sounds awed, as if he has only just realized this. Russia knows that he has always held this belief, though. He knows that America does not fully understand. But America is shaking his head, and repeats, “You are so fucked up.”   
  
“Perhaps,” Russia says without really saying anything. He tips his head, regarding America with some sense of deformed sympathy. “Isn’t it strange that you and I wrap our lives around one another while pledging hatred?”   
  
America does recoil this time.   
  
“Isn’t it?” Russia insists.   
  
“It’s not,” America snaps.   
  
“Isn’t it interesting that you are so focused on defeating and destroying me that you cannot see anything else?” Russia says, voice still hushed.   
  
“Shut up,” America demands. His hand strays to his back, where he will grasp the back-up gun that Russia has known about and yet has not taken from him. It has been weeks and America has not used it, not truly. The gun is out now, pressing against Russia’s Adam’s apple. Russia accepts this in the way he accepts most things. Russia says nothing but America still says, “Shut up.”   
  
“I have,” Russia tells him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Russia finds America again the next day, sitting by the window, thumbing the yellowed, dog-eared pages of his book. He’s clutching to it. His face is turned away but when Russia enters, his head instantly swivels around and finds Russia’s eyes.   
  
They stare at one another.   
  
“You like your stories,” Russia says.   
  
America smirks while glaring. “Of course.”   
  
“They sound unrealistic and foolish,” Russia tells him.  
  
America snorts. “Like I give a shit what you think.”   
  
“And do the heroes in your stories always win?”  
  
“That’s why they’re heroes,” America hisses, voice acidic and cruel.   
  
Russia does not stop smiling. He never truly does, not when he knows the effect it has on America.   
  
“How childish,” Russia muses. “To clutch so tightly to such idealism.”   
  
“There’s nothing foolish about hope and optimism,” America shoots back.   
  
“There are many dangerous things to it, and cruel things,” Russia argues.   
  
“I don’t care about your grim reaper outlook, you red bastard. Get the fuck out of my sight.”   
  
He waves his book at Russia, dismissing him even when a prisoner in Russia’s house. Russia watches him with hooded eyes before moving to get himself a drink.   
  
With his back turned, he hears rather than sees America get up. He hears the chair crash as its thrown against the wall and shatters. Russia stops moving, but does not turn around.   
  
“I don’t know what kind of fucked up mind thing you’re doing to me but stop it,” America demands. “It isn’t going to work.”  
  
When Russia turns around, he is smiling. “I am doing nothing to you. Perhaps it is all in your own mind, yes?”   
  
“Fuck you,” America swears, which he says whenever he has nothing to say.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America kisses him.   
  
This, Russia suspects, is not what he’d anticipated. But it seems that America has drawn up new tactics, new ways in which to distract him and destroy him. It won’t work, no matter how earnest America feels against his lips, how determined and superior he may feel.   
  
Russia allows America to kiss him. America is all teeth and no patience. He arches and burns and demands. Russia allows America to kiss him and to lower him down onto the bed. America slides over him, moves above him, pulls back and his eyes are flaming and passionate. The sound of their breathing, Russia thinks, is such an ugly sound.   
  
Their hips fit together through the layers of their clothing, skin lining up with skin, bones lining up with bones. Russia supposes there must be something poetic to the moment, but America is bending over him, biting his mouth and demanding more and more. Their teeth clack.   
  
Russia admires his passion, silently. America grabs at him and his grip is tight, he grips him as if he intends to break Russia—as if he could break Russia. He clutches his fingertips and demands ever more.   
  
“Is this meant to break me?” Russia asks him.   
  
Something flickers in America’s eyes, something that Russia is not used to seeing underneath so much anger and bravado. It is in that moment that Russia understands that as much as America does not understand him, so, too, does he not understand America.   
  
But quickly the look is gone, closed off. America’s face lines up with his anger again and he slants his eyes away for a moment, the slightest of flickers. Russia will not apologize. America pushes against him again, demands his full attention. “Shut up, will you?”  
  
Russia does not speak again, and they fuck one another in silence.   
  
In the morning, America is gone and the front door is off its hinges, a crumbled mass of broken splinters on the floor.


End file.
